


An Apple a Day

by jericho



Category: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jericho/pseuds/jericho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris spends a decade using not-so-subtle methods to get Howie's attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2000

Howie sat in the tenth row, slumped back in his seat, happy to have a couple of minutes in his day where he didn't actually have to talk to people. The other choir members milled around down at the front of the room, chatting noisily. But the noise didn't seem to make it up to where Howie was. 

He wrote "white shirt/black pants" in the margin of his notebook. He'd almost forgotten to get his mother to wash them. He'd bought them especially for performances, but at the moment they were rolled up on the floor of his closet. If another day went by where he forgot to drag them out and throw them in the laundry basket, he was going to have to write a reminder on his hand. 

He heard someone sit in the seat behind him, bumping his chair a little as the person got comfortable. He flipped the page back to the song he was writing. A song for his new group. But he couldn't think of anything suitable that rhymed with "blond." 

The person behind him crossed his legs, pushing against Howie's seat again. Howie stopped writing, narrowing his eyes at his notebook. He wasn't the type to turn around and say something, but dammit, it was hard to enjoy solitude with someone kicking the back of his chair. 

He heard paper being crumpled behind him, then the hard snapping sound of someone biting into an apple. He thought it might be Chris Kirkpatrick, the guy who hadn't shut up since the day he showed up with his freaky hair and his patched overalls. Those were Chris Kirkpatrick-type noises. 

Another snap, followed by loud crunching. Howie sighed and rested his head on his hand. 

Snap. Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

Ssssssnap. Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

Howie hooked his pen on his notebook and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wished he had Tylenol. The headache he got around third period was returning in full force. 

"Hey!" he heard Chris yell from behind him. 

A guy at the front of the room looked past Howie and waved. Chris put his hand on the seat next to Howie and used the leverage to leap over. He walked through the seats to the aisle like a gangster rapper. 

"Give a shout out to the west siiiide," Chris hollered in a middle class gangsta voice, waving his hands in the air. Howie stared at him. It was obvious that Chris didn't care who saw or heard him. In fact, he couldn't seem to stop calling attention to himself. Chris wove his way to the front of the room, far enough down that Howie couldn't hear him anymore. 

Finally, Howie thought. But it was too late. His headache was back. 

*** 

Howie found something to rhyme with "blond." He'd decided to go with "long," which was a slant rhyme, but it was perfectly acceptable. He was back in the tenth row, once again with a third-degree headache, rubbing his temples for the few blissfully quiet minutes before choir practice started. He paused from his rhyming to pick at his sneaker. A strip of rubber was coming loose. Time for new shoes. 

He heard the shuffle of feet in the aisle behind him, then legs push against his chair. "No," he mumbled, too low for anyone else to hear. 

Paper rustling. And then: Ssssnap. Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

This time he debated saying something. But what could he say? It wasn't up to him where Chris ate his apple. Then there were more footsteps from the aisle behind him, and he heard Chris call someone a motherfucker. 

Then the sounds of playful swatting. Little giggles. Howie felt a hard elbow jab into the back of his head and winced. 

He turned around quickly to find Chris with one of the tenors, engaged in what looked like a thumb war. They didn't seem to realize they'd hit Howie in the back of the head. 

"Howdy," Chris said with a big grin, still wrestling with the other guy. 

Howie turned back around slowly, slumping down and staring at his notebook. He was too tired to write any more lyrics. 

*** 

The next day Howie arrived 20 minutes early, as usual. But this time he sat in the seventh row, far enough away that if Chris decided to sit in the same seat again and eat one of those stupid apples, Howie wouldn't be able to hear it. And he could always relocate when practice started. 

He slumped down with his notebook. Same song, different verse. This time he couldn't find anything to rhyme with "love" that wasn't "above," because he couldn't think of anything to go with "above." He watched Chris enter the room, stopping to slap someone on the back, and walk casually up the aisle. He was already reaching in his backpack for the little brown paper bag that held his apple. 

He passed Howie's aisle and Howie smiled into his notebook. Aha, he thought. Got you this time. 

Someone sat in the seat behind him, but he knew it wasn't Chris. It couldn't be Chris. Because why the hell would Chris sit right behind him again? 

"Oh, fuck," Howie moaned under his breath when he heard the sound of paper crumpling. 

Sssnap. Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

Howie gritted his teeth. He wanted to turn around and wring Chris's neck - choke him until pieces of apple fell out of his mouth and his face turned purple. He could already feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing gently in the back of his brain, ready to ignite. 

Chris leaned suddenly on the back of the seat next to Howie, extending an open bag of Twizzlers. "Want one?" 

Howie shifted uncomfortably. "Um, no thanks." 

Chris nodded absently, looking around the room but showing no signs of leaving. "Whatcha writing?" 

"Nothing. Just a song." 

"Really? Let's see." Before Howie could react, Chris leaned forward and slipped the page out from under Howie's hands. Howie grabbed at it wildly. Chris kept his eyes fixed on the paper, moving his hand around to avoid Howie's reach. "There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold," Chris pretended to read, "and she's buying a stairway to Heaven." Chris didn't seem too concerned with what was actually written on the paper, because he handed it back immediately. "I think someone's already written that." 

"Very funny," Howie said, turning abruptly and slumping down in his seat again. He heard Chris behind him, chewing his apple, probably wondering why Howie was such a prick. Howie liked to goof around as much as the next guy, but Chris didn't seem to have an off button. 

Howie heard the small "cachung" of the apple being tossed in the brown paper bag, and then more crumpling. Then Chris was leaning on the back of the seat again, bag of Twizzlers extended. 

"Are you sure you don't want one?" 

Deep, careful breath. "No, thank you." 

"Okay." 

Howie stared at his paper. Blue lines on a white background. Chris didn't seem to be moving. He was just hovering, his head next to Howie's, liquorice dangling lazily over the chair. Howie took a blank piece of paper and covered his lyrics with it, tapping his pen on the side of his binder. 

Chris removed a long strip of red liquorice and took a big bite, chewing on it thoughtfully. "You're Howie, right?" 

"Yes," Howie said, and in spite of himself, a little indignantly. He knew Chris's full name. Chris should at least have known Howie's first one. 

"You starting a group or something?" 

"Not really," Howie said quickly, keeping the blank page over his lyrics. "Just me and a couple of friends." 

"Oh." Chris nodded thoughtfully, scanning the room like he was looking for someone else to bug. And he must have found someone, because he pulled back his Twizzlers and stood up. "See ya around." 

"Yeah." 

***

Howie sat in the fifth row this time, getting dangerously close to the front of the room. Chris walked in lazily, legs stretching as he climbed the aisle, and Howie wasn't even surprised when he heard Chris shuffle through the chairs and sit directly behind him. 

"Let me guess," Howie said loudly without turning around. "You have an apple." 

Chris's head appeared over the seat, his face wearing a big goofy grin. "How did you know?" 

Howie waved his pen in the air. "I'm psychic." 

"You should charge for that." Chris fished the apple out of the paper bag and bit into it about half a foot away from Howie's ear. Howie stared at his notebook, waiting for the crunching to slow and then stop. "One of the tenors is having a huge honkin' party tonight," Chris said. "Apparently he lives in this huge house by the water and his parents are in Rio." 

"I know," Howie replied. 

"Are you going?" 

Howie tapped his pen evenly. "I can't. I have a date." And he really did. And if you had a date, you might as well let people know about it, right? 

"Oh!" Chris said, leaning forward more. "A hot one?" 

"I guess. More like...a lukewarm one." And there was some satisfaction out of getting Chris Kirkpatrick, obviously a lifelong class clown, to laugh. And just the sound of Chris's howl made Howie laugh a little himself. 

"A lukewarm one," Chris repeated. "Is that where you sort of get lucky?" 

"Yeah. Where you eat half your dinner and watch the movie with no sound." 

More laughter, and Chris ended it with a sigh. "You're a funny guy, you know. Funny _and_ psychic. You don't usually see that combination in a person." 

"Yeah. I come from good genes." 

Chris smirked and patted the back of the seat. "Well, if you get stood up, I'll see you there." 

Howie looked up indignantly. "I've never been stood up in my life." 

"Okay." Chris held up his hands like a gun had been pulled on him. "That was actually just a joke." Chris shuffled through the chairs, heading toward the aisle again, and Howie remembered. Solitude. 

*** 

"I can't make it, Howie," his date said over the phone. "I'm _so_ sick. The doctor told me I shouldn't leave the house for a week, but I told him I can't miss that much school...." 

Howie twisted the phone cord around his finger. "It's cool. It's cool. We'll do it next Friday, if you're feeling up to it." 

"We definitely will. You're such a sweetheart, Howie. Thank you." 

"No problem." Howie hung up the phone and looked at the clock. Wondered what his friends were doing. But he already knew. 

An hour later he found himself pushing through the tenor's living room, realizing that he didn't even know the guy's name. The room was so packed that he tried to make his body narrow to fit through, simultaneously dodging stray splashes of alcohol that came flying from all directions. He had some sort of alcoholic lemonade in his own hand. It was a bit of a pansy drink, but the shit was good. He was on his fifth, actually. Maybe even his sixth. 

It wasn't hard to spot Chris. All it took was looking at the centre of the living room, where someone had cleared a rectangular patch amongst the people and set up a Twister board. Chris stood on the coffee table, his shoulders above the rest of the crowd, with a little cardboard square, tapping it with his index finger to spin the little piece of plastic and bellowing "Left foot blue!" It was followed by laughter, and a loud lewd remark from Chris, before he tapped the square again and bellowed "Right hand red!" 

By the time Howie made it to the kitchen for another lemonade, he knew with absolute certainty that he'd lost his friends. One had disappeared into an upstairs bedroom with a freshman girl. The other threw up in the bushes and passed out on someone's swing set. That left Howie, wavering around a strange house. He had to get drunk, because the scene would have been a little scary if he didn't. A big beefy soprano was stumbling around with a brassiere on his head. A girl who sung like a canary was crying in the living room because she'd broken a lamp. Screw the rugby team or the ice hockey players, Howie figured. Put some alcohol into the choir and they were a force to be reckoned with. 

He opened a new lemonade and tucked another one under his arm for good measure. He was vaguely thankful that he was wearing a long-sleeve shirt so the bottle wasn't cold on his arm. He pushed through the flock in the living room and slid out onto the deck, where a circle of people appeared to be riding the patio furniture. The deck looked out on a long, flat beach, the water black until the white waves crested and washed onto the shore. He leaned on the railing, looking out serenely, spotting a couple laying on the sand a few feet from the deck. They were really going at it, Howie noticed. The girl was already half naked. Now _that_ was a hot date. 

His train of thought was interrupted by a slap on his back. He turned in time to see Chris's arm coming at him, resting on Howie's shoulders and pulling Howie closer. "Howie!" Chris said. "You came!" 

"Yep," Howie said, realizing that his eyelids were probably at half mast. "Here I am." 

Chris grinned and yanked him even closer. "Did you get stood up?" 

"No. She's sick." 

"Oh. That sucks, buddy. Is she worth it? Is she hot?" 

Howie shrugged, his gaze wandering out to the couple again. "She's okay. She looks a little like..." He squinted, watching the girl on the beach sit up and adjust her bra, her long hair flowing in the wind. "She looks a little like her." 

Chris followed Howie's line of vision. "Like her?" 

"Yeah. _Exactly_ like her, actually." He pulled away a little and leaned against the railing for a better look. "Yeah. That's actually my fucking date." 

Chris winced. "Buddy." 

"Yeah," Howie mumbled in agreement. 

He felt Chris's arm around his shoulder again, tugging him back. Chris waved his beer in the direction of the couple. "Fuck her! I did!" he shouted, and the couple's heads snapped to the side as they looked toward the deck. 

Howie covered his face with his lemonade. "God, Chris," he moaned. "Don't do that." 

"Come on," Chris said. "There are a lot of fine women here who'd love to get a piece of you." 

An hour later, Howie was even drunker. He suspected it had something to do with the shots Chris kept pouring and setting in front of him before Chris sat on the deck chair across from him. Howie took a sip of the shot, which was a different color from the last ones, and his face scrunched into a ball. "Jesus. What's in this?" 

"It's made by a friend of mine," Chris said, clumsily tucking his feet under his legs. "Jim or Jack. I can't remember which." 

Howie dabbed his tongue in the shot glass, trying another taste of it. "I didn't think you were supposed to mix alcohol. It makes you sick." 

"Bah!" Chris protested. "If it's too strong, just wash it down with your pansy lemonade." 

"Shut up," Howie said lightly, then tipped his head back and downed it. It was like drinking liquid fire. It tore through his throat and landed like a meteor in his gut. The rest of his body was strangely numb. 

Chris leaned forward intently. "You know," he slurred, "if you wanna make her jealous, you should go around the party being a little Latin lover." 

Howie was still trying to straighten out his face. "That's ridiculous. I don't speak a word of Latin." He stopped laughing long enough to take a swig of his lemonade, and Chris was right. It cooled the burn a little. "Actually," Howie said, "the other half of my family is Irish." 

"Then you could blow up her car." 

Howie swallowed his lemonade in time to prevent from spitting it all over the place. "That's bad," he laughed. "That's like...discriminatory or something." 

Chris leapt to his feet, already facing the kitchen. "If you're still using words like 'discriminatory,' you're not as drunk as you should be." 

"Pardon me," Howie said by way of apology. And given that his legs weren't working properly, he had no choice but to wait for Chris to return with another shot. 

Howie took the next one and held it up to the light. "What is this?" 

"An Apple Jack," Chris said, tucking himself into the chair again. "Jack Daniels and apple juice." 

Howie raised the shot and stopped suddenly. "You and your fucking apples!" 

"Huh?" 

"You always sit behind me and you're _so_ noisy. And it doesn't matter where I sit. You sit right behind me." 

Chris grinned and shrugged. "Hey, how else am I supposed to get you to talk to me?" 

"You could just try a 'hi,'" Howie said before he tilted his head back and drank. 

Chris grabbed his beer off the deck and held it up. "Let's make a toast." 

"Okay." Howie found his lemonade and raised it. "To what?" 

"To life!" 

"To life! To life! Na na na na, to life," Howie sang. "To Tzeitel, my daughter, my wife! Or some shit like that." 

Chris squinted. "What the hell are you singing?" 

"Fiddler on the Roof. Don't tell me you don't know any Fiddler on the Roof songs." 

"Um, okay. I won't tell you." 

Howie's eyes widened. "How can you be singing your entire life and not know any Fiddler on the Roof songs?" 

Chris waved his beer in the air lazily. "I guess I missed that crucial Fiddler on the Roof part of my musical training." He leaned in and rested his elbows on his knees. "But seriously. To fame and fortune." 

"To fame and fortune," Howie agreed, and drank. 

Another hour passed and Howie found himself standing in what must have been a once-immaculate bathroom. The gold fixtures still gleamed, but the porcelain sink was now marred with the remnants of someone's beer, and someone's sock was in the bathtub. The party noises were distant as he unzipped his pants, closed his eyes and relieved himself of an entire night of hard drinking. 

He heard a thump on the door, followed a second later by Chris popping his head in. "Taking a leak?" 

"You betcha." 

"You shouldn't leave the door unlocked. That's kinky." 

"I forgot," Howie mumbled, looking down to make sure he didn't get anything caught in his zipper as he did up his pants. 

Chris stepped in and let the door swing shut behind him, a shot glass balancing in each hand. "One more for the road," he said. "I saw someone making it and I had to have it." 

Howie reached out and took one of the glasses, studying it even though it could have been turpentine at that point and he still would have drank it. "What is it?" 

"It's called a Latin Lover. At least according to one of the altos." 

Howie giggled a little. "Okay." 

Chris took a step forward and stood in front of him, shot glass raised. "To Latin lovers!" 

"And Irish ones!" 

They clinked glasses and tipped their heads back, Adam's Apples bobbing as they downed it in one big gulp. Howie giggled and fell forward, right into Chris's chest. "God, I'm drunk." 

"Wasted," Chris agreed. He seemed to fall forward too, like they were in a minor tug-of-war, only with the opposite goal. 

Shoulders bumped clumsily. Howie tried to straighten himself out, looking up in the process, and their foreheads banged together. 

Howie laughed and rubbed his head. "Ow." 

"Hey, you did it to me." 

"No, I didn't." 

"Yes, you did." Chris grabbed Howie's shirt and pulled him forward, banging their heads together lightly. 

Howie laughed even harder. "Stop that!" 

"I can't help it. I watch too much wrestling." 

Chris pulled him again, light enough for the joke but hard enough that Howie didn't have much choice in the matter. Then again, he was so drunk that he was easy to tug. This time their noses bumped together, although it wasn't hard enough to hurt. And then, suddenly, their lips. 

It was a clumsy kiss, lasting a fraction of a second, but it was still enough to make Howie's breath catch in his throat. And this time, when he fell forward, he planted his hands on Chris's shoulders to hold himself in place. 

Then it was a real kiss. An alternate reality, acid trip sort of kiss, like Howie was watching it happen to someone else rather than actually doing it himself. The alcohol made his brain hum like a live wire, and his body fall forward into Chris's arms. And the lights were so bright that he had to keep his eyes closed. 

And it was nice. Very, very nice. Chris's lips were so soft and pliant that when he felt Chris's tongue slip into his mouth, Howie parted his lips even farther to accept it. He tasted alcohol, and the very slight scrape of...braces? He'd never noticed that before. 

It wasn't until he felt Chris tense that he tensed too. They tore away at the same time. "Oh my God," Howie mumbled. 

Chris's eyes were wide. "No shit." 

"Okay, I'm just gonna...." 

"Yeah. Me too. Very late." 

"...Mom will be worried." 

"Yeah. Gotta go." 

Howie made it to the bathroom door before Chris did, hurrying down the stairs. He found his jacket on the floor by the door and slid into it, gambling on being able to call a cab from the pay phone on the corner. 

On Monday he sat in the tenth row, slumped down with his notebook, frantically trying to focus on coming up with the right word to rhyme with "high." He looked up for a split second when Chris came in the room, then focused hard on his notebook. Die, why, guy, try.... 

Chris sauntered to the other side of the room, sitting down with a couple of the sopranos. Howie thought he might have felt Chris look over at him, but he slumped down even lower and concentrated on his notebook. They were back to being strangers. Two guys amongst dozens of guys. Two guys who had nothing in common and shouldn't really have talked in the first place. 

Goodbye, Howie thought, and he wrote it down. 


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Howie and Chris actually spoke again, they were both in their own successful groups, and Howie hugged Chris because you couldn't hug Joey and JC and whoever else was around and not hug Chris. It was easy to make small talk, always about post-college things. It was easy to think and pretend and know that they were two entirely different people now. Mature people. Sober people. Straight people. Chris had a steady girlfriend and a clothing line to worry about. Howie had non-steady girlfriends and the happiness of the entire world to worry about. They didn't talk a whole lot. They never drank together. They just existed in the same world the way they had always existed in the same world, tolerating each other's existence, carrying on five-minute friendships before they ran off to opposite ends of the airport. 

But Joey? Joey was the one Howie really liked. He liked Joey's "hey, buddy" attitude, and the way Joey always had a smile on his face, and the way Joey could crack a joke and get the entire room in stitches. Joey was great buddy material. 

So when Joey had a birthday party on one of the rare occasions when the boy bands were in the same place while criss-crossing the country, Howie had to go. He was invited. He wanted to pay his regards. He had no choice. 

The party was at a rowdy bar in New York City, a good week after the actual day, but the group had been so busy that there wasn't time to celebrate before then. They picked an old pub, frequented mostly by retired men who could still reminisce about the old country. The gleaming, perfectly-polished bar with dark wood was the focal point of the room. The small square stage with a karaoke machine was tucked away in the corner. 

Howie went alone. None of the other guys in his group were really into it. The place was packed when he got there and pushed open the door. He heard someone warbling up at the karaoke machine, and a dozen different strains of laughter. 

He got a drink before he headed over to Joey, who was wavering back and forth with a big bow someone had taken off a present and stuck on his head. He grinned when he saw Howie. 

"Buddy!" 

"Happy birthday," Howie said, wrapping his arms around Joey and giving him as much of a bear hug as he could. Joey was bigger, though, and Howie ended up crushed against him when Joey got the same idea. 

"Thanks for coming, man," Joey said. "You didn't bring..." 

"They're all busy," Howie explained. 

"Yeah. Busy not liking us." 

"Nah..." Howie said, but it was a pathetic attempt. "Well, I don't want to hog you. I'm going to wander." 

Howie turned and looked around. He knew some of the people there, but he didn't feel like smiling yet. So he wandered in the direction of the bar. 

A few minutes later he had secured himself a stool next to Joey's great uncle. He made the mistake of smiling and nodding politely when Joey's uncle talked to him, and pretty soon was trapped with a crush of people behind him, listening to Joey's uncle tell a story that sounded like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in slow motion. The alcohol made it easier to tune out, but every time Howie stopped paying attention, Joey's uncle hit him on the arm with his bony knuckles and bellowed "Ya see?" 

It went on forever. Or at least long enough to down three drinks. Howie wasn't sure if he was downing them because he was sitting right in front of the bar, or because intoxication would make the story more interesting. 

"Hey!" Chris called from behind him. "Didn't even come say hi yet!" 

Oh, thank God, Howie thought. He spun right into a hug from Chris, who was wearing a funky paisley shirt and aviator glasses. 

Chris pushed past Howie and rested his elbows on the bar. "Shooter?" 

Howie bit his lip. "Um...I don't...." 

Chris raised his hand at the bartender. "Shooter!" He flipped off his glasses and turned enough to flash Howie a big grin. "How ya been?" 

Howie shrugged. "Same as always." He scanned the crowd quickly. "Where's your girlfriend?" 

"Couldn't come. She's sick." Chris handed Howie a shooter, the liquid in the glass shimmering. "Where's yours?" 

"Well, she doesn't really exist." Howie looked cautiously at the shot. "I mean, I don't have one." 

"Bummer," Chris replied. 

"Not at all, actually. I'm just out for a good time right now." 

Chris held up his shot enthusiastically. "I'll drink to that. To having a good time." 

Howie smiled politely and clinked glasses, tilting his head back and downing it. It tasted sweet, but with a biting undertone to it that Howie couldn't place. He studied his empty shot glass, looking for clues in the bottom of it, before he said, "What was that?" 

"What do you think?" Chris asked. "An Apple Jack. Well, gotta mingle. I'll be back." Chris pushed past him, wandering off into the crowd again. Howie couldn't help but stare after him. 

An Apple Jack, Howie thought wryly as he put his empty glass on the bar. Was that supposed to be funny? 

***

Howie stood in the middle of the crowd, trying to hit the little button that made his watch glow so he could see what time it was. A few feet in front of him, Justin was teetering on the little stage singing "I Will Survive," stopping every once in awhile to snap his fingers as if he were going to follow it up with "girlfriend!" or some equally Jerry Springer word. Howie managed to press the button, and the little Indiglo light flashed for a split second before it went off again. 

"Dammit," Howie mumbled, trying to balance his drink at the same time. Then he felt a familiar presence at his shoulder, accompanied by a familiar voice. 

"It's midnight," Chris said. "Midnight in the garden of good and evil." 

"Thanks." Howie repositioned his drink so he could hold it in his hand again, looking up to see Justin do a drunken Rockettes-style kick. 

"Look at him," Chris laughed. "He is so gay." 

Howie's eyes widened. "Really?" 

"No, not really. But he should be. Although he'd never keep up with Lance." 

Howie watched Chris take a swig of beer. "Lance is gay?" 

Chris looked like he was going to spit the beer all over the old woman in front of him. Obviously one of Joey's many aunts. "You're kidding, right?" 

Howie's brow furrowed. "Lance is gay?" 

"Oh, Howie," Chris sighed, slapping him on the back. "Where have you been?" 

"In a whole other group," Howie replied. "On a whole different side of the country. Besides, I don't, like, pay attention to who's gay and who's not." 

"Oh, you should. It's all sorts of fun. You mean you don't have anyone in your group who like..." Chris made an obscene thrusting motion with his hips. As if on cue, the old woman turned around and looked down, then glared at Chris like he'd just bitten the head off a bat. Chris stood up straight and smiled. "Hello. How are you?" 

The woman faced the stage again, and Howie's giggles came so fast that they almost sounded like a sneeze. Chris leaned in close. "I don't think she appreciated that," he said in a low voice. 

"No. Me either." 

"You should start doing it too. She'll turn around and we'll both be back here like..." Chris made the obscene hip motion again, just in time for the old woman to glance back and catch another glimpse of it. Her head snapped around again and Howie laughed so hard that his ribs ached. 

"Stop it," Howie breathed. "That's too damn funny." 

"I should grab her and say 'who's yer daddy?'" 

"Oh God," Howie moaned, wiping away a tear. "Please don't." 

Chris nudged him and nodded toward the stage. "You should get up there." 

"Oh, no. I don't think I'm drunk enough for that yet." 

"You sing for a living, in front of millions of people, and you have to be drunk to do karaoke." Chris paused and scratched his shoulder. "Well, let's grab a table then." Chris turned to head to one of the tables. Howie must have tensed visibly, because Chris took a step backward and faced him again. "Okay. If you don't want to, that's cool." 

He didn't want to. He really didn't. But he couldn't think of an excuse not to, so he shrugged. "Sure." It wasn't like he was extremely busy, or having a conversation with anyone else. 

He followed Chris, pushing through the crowd until Chris found two chairs in the corner. There was a beer bottle in front of one of them, like someone had been sitting there and gotten up to go to the bar or something. But Chris sat down anyway, so Howie did too. 

Howie leaned back in the chair, resting his head against the wall, setting his drink on the table next to him. 

"That's a nice jacket," Chris said. "What is it?" 

Howie looked down and fingered one of the buttons. "Oh. Armani." 

"Armani. You've hit the big time." 

"So have you." 

Chris bobbed his head to the music, eyes lazily scanning the crowd. "I have a question for you." 

"Go for it." 

Chris looked like he was going to ask it, then paused and took another sip of his drink. He licked his lips, still watching the crowd, and finally came out with it. "How come you never asked me to join your group? I mean, when you were putting one together?" 

Howie shrugged at his glass. "I didn't think you'd be interested." It wasn't entirely the truth, but it was as close to it as Howie could get on such short notice. 

"I was," Chris said lightly. "You knew I'd be interested." 

"How would I know that?" Howie's face was getting hot and he wasn't even sure why. Maybe the alcohol. "Why didn't you just ask?" 

"Because I couldn't come up and ask you. That would be like...embarrassing. I wanted you to ask me." 

Howie poked at one of the ice cubes in his drink, watching it hit the bottom of the glass and float back up the surface. "Besides, you didn't even, like, talk to me." 

Chris stretched one of his arms and it hit the table with a thud. " _I_ didn't talk to _you_? I talked to you lots. You didn't talk back. Not unless I forced you. And when I figured I'd stop forcing you, you stopped talking." 

"Well, I can't read your mind, Chris." 

Chris planted both feet on the ground and grabbed his drink. "You know, forget it. I can't win with you." 

Howie watched Chris stand up and push through the crowd, and he stared back down at his drink. What had just happened there? He sat there for a few minutes, picking the label off the empty beer bottle, when Joey appeared. 

"Howie," Joey said, "you don't look like you're drinking enough. We gotta fix that." 

*** 

Around 1:30, Howie decided it was time for karaoke. He sat squeezed between Lance and one of Joey's girlfriends, flipping through the binder with the plastic pages of song listings. "Oh my God!" he said, pointing at one of the wavering lines of text. 

Lance looked over his shoulder. "What?" 

"They have 'To Life,' from Fiddler on the Roof. You know, 'to life, to life, L'Chaim, L'Chaim, L'Chaim, to life....'" 

"If you've been lucky then Monday was no worse than Sunday was," Lance finished. 

Howie perked up. "You know it?" 

"Sure I do. We used to sing it in the choir in high school." 

Howie stayed in place for a moment, eyes fixed excitedly on Lance. Or as excitedly as they could when the lids were drooping. "You wanna?" 

Lance looked down at his drink and back up again. "What the hell. I'm gonna need the bouncing ball, though. I can't remember all the words." 

"Me neither." 

Next thing they knew they were stepping up the half level from the floor to the stage, looking down at a crowd. An ice cream truck version of Fiddler on the Roof music filtered through the speakers, and Howie thought the room might be spinning. 

Howie threw his arm around Lance's shoulders, and Lance did the same. They slurred and giggled their way through the song, and Howie was confident in the knowledge that at least two dozen other people had made asses of themselves tonight. 

"To us and our good fortune," they sang. "Be happy, be healthy, long life. And if our good fortune never comes, here's to whatever comes, drink! L'Chaim! To life!" On the last two words Lance banged his drink against Howie's so hard that Howie thought the glass would break. 

There seemed to be wild applause, and Howie grabbed the shoulder of the person closest to him to balance himself as he stepped off the stage. 

"I gotta go to bed soon," Howie told Lance as they pushed through the crowd. 

"Aren't you gonna make up with Chris first?" 

Howie blinked. "Huh?" 

"I saw you guys having some kind of argument. I thought it was anyway, cuz he got up and walked away. Never mind." 

"No, it was just..." Howie waved his hand in the air to help finish his sentence. "Talking about old stuff." 

Lance turned around suddenly and they bumped into each other. "He told me you guys kissed at a party," he said slyly. 

Howie was sure his jaw dropped. " _What_? No. We never...I mean...no! He told you that?" 

"Chris tells everyone everything." 

"That's just...no! I mean, we were really drunk. That's it. It was an accident. A long time ago. Ages ago. Like, years ago." 

Lance nodded, looking reflective. "Yeah. I can see why you guys wouldn't work together. He's kinda loud and you're kinda...." 

"We wouldn't work together because I'm not gay!" That was the thing with gay people. They assumed everyone else was willing to switch hit. And everyone wasn't. 

"Well, whatever," Lance said, looking like he couldn't care one way or the other. "But still, you should talk to him before you go. He thinks a lot of you." 

Lance continued through the crowd, but Howie was too stunned to follow him. Did Lance think of him as gay? Was that why he said that? Or even brought that up? He wanted to kick Chris in the shins for ever telling anyone about the stupid bathroom incident. The incident Howie had pushed out of his mind long ago. He barely remembered it, really. And looking around the room, Howie decided he wanted to _tell_ Chris how pissed off he was for telling Lance. 

He found Chris at a corner table, doing shooters with Joey. He opened his mouth to bitch but Joey stood and put his arm around Howie, pulling him close. "Are you man enough?" Joey asked, and handed Howie a shooter. 

Damn right, he was man enough. And just to prove it, he sat down and did a shot. Maybe a couple of shots. Okay, a few. 

***

Howie was having a really wild dream that seemed to involve dancing beer bottles when a ghostly sound crept into his head and kept repeating itself. 

Ssssssnap. Crunch crunch crunch. 

He wiped his eyes and rolled a little, realizing for the first time that he wasn't in his own bed. Someone else's room. Joey's. Joey had a hotel room but stayed somewhere else. Howie had followed a flock of people back to the hotel and passed out here. 

When he heard the noise again, he was sure he wasn't dreaming it. Someone was eating an apple. 

He opened his eyes slowly, only as much as he absolutely had to in order to see. Sunlight had filtered into the room, and someone was sitting in the big stuffed chair in the corner. 

He opened his eyes wider and tried to focus, although he knew it was Chris. Only Chris could make those annoying sounds when he ate a piece of fruit. 

"What're you doing?" Howie mumbled. 

"Just came in to make sure you weren't dead." 

Howie ran his hand through his hair and his fingers caught on a tangle. "I feel like it." He sat up slowly, running his hand along the barely-wrinkled bedspread. He hadn't even bothered to get under the covers. 

A long plastic thing flew toward him and Howie waited until it landed to reach for it. A toothbrush, still in the package. 

"Thanks," Howie said. 

"No problem. We keep 'em around all the time, because someone's always losing their toothbrush." 

Howie looked at it for a second and fell face first on the pillow again. "What time is it?" 

"It's about 10." 

Howie kept his face buried in the pillow and groped blindly at the phone. "I should call them." 

"They already phoned. The hotel put them through to Lance's room and we told them where you were. Apparently you don't go out on very many benders." 

"No." Howie wrapped his arms around the pillow, wanting to just go back to sleep. His head was pounding and his stomach felt like it was on a rocky boat. But he had to get up and get moving. They had an interview that afternoon, then another extended ride on the tour bus. 

He raised himself into a timid sitting position, crawling to the end of the bed and stepping off. "I'm gonna use his shower," Howie mumbled. 

"I ordered some breakfast," Chris said. "I don't know what you drink when you're hung over, but I got one of everything. Milk. Orange juice. Coffee." 

"Thank you." Howie let the door shut behind him and stripped out of his clothes, dropping them in the middle of the floor. The shower was like a gift from God, making his eyes open and washing away the gross feeling from the night before. He must have stayed in there for 20 minutes with his face in the spray. 

He pulled back the curtain to step out and found Chris leaning against the counter. 

"Jesus!" Howie said, tugging the shower curtain closed again. "What are you doing in here?" 

"Relax. God. I just brought you a hairbrush. I know how you are about your hair." 

The shower had just stopped, but Howie was already shivering a little. "No," he called through the curtain, "you _don't_ know how I am about my hair. You don't know me well enough to know how I am about my hair. You barely know me." 

Howie didn't know where that rant had come from, but he regretted it immediately. "Forget it, man," Chris said, his voice thick with impatience. "Never mind. God. You know, I try and try to be nice to you, and you're just a jerk to me. And you're never a jerk to anyone else. Just me. I don't know what your problem is." 

Howie stuck his head around the curtain, grabbing a towel in the process. "My problem is that I didn't want you to kiss me!" 

" _Kiss_ you? When?" 

"In school. At that party." 

Chris sighed deeply. "You know, man, you have some serious issues to work out." The door closed heavily behind him. 

Howie stepped out, drying off quickly and stepping back into his clothes. He combed out his hair, but it still looked strange. He searched in the pocket of his jacket and found a band to tie it back with. 

When he went back into the room, Chris was gone. He spun sideways to find a tray on the desk with three separate glasses - milk, orange juice, ice water. Right next to it was a bowl of cereal and a steaming cup of coffee. 

Howie searched for a bill and couldn't find one. Chris must have charged it to the room. He pulled out the chair and sat down, staring at it for a moment before he grabbed a spoon and ate some of the cereal. 

He was a few mouthfuls into it when Joey came in. "Hey. Have a good time?" 

Howie nodded and swallowed. 

"I just ran into Chris in the hallway," Joey said. "I can't figure out what you guys fight about." 

"We didn't fight," Howie said between mouthfuls. "I barely know him." He put down the spoon and stood up. "I gotta get back. Thanks, Joey." 

They gave each other a bear hug and Joey smiled. "Well, we're leaving in a few minutes. See you around." 

Howie gulped. "Leaving?" 

"Yeah. Gotta get on a plane and head to Europe. Next leg of the tour. We'll be over there for a few weeks. 

"Have fun. And happy birthday, man." 

Howie stepped out into the hallway, stepping aside for the maid to pass. He stood there, looking from one end to the other, and knocked on the door again. 

Joey opened it. "Yeah?" 

"Which room is Chris's?" 

"2112." 

Joey shut the door and Howie stood there again, debating. Okay, maybe he _had_ been a bit of a jerk. Not just today, but in general. He didn't like the idea of someone being mad at him, especially when it was someone he wouldn't talk to for another six months. If nothing else, Howie figured he'd give Chris some money for the room service. He knew from experience that what Chris had ordered probably cost around $12. 

He knocked on Chris's door and waited, shuffling back and forth, trying to look cool and calm for when Chris looked through the peep hole. He heard the chain lock unlatch and the door swung open. "Hey," Chris said. 

"Hey. I'm sorry. I said some really stupid things back there. I don't know what got into me. I feel like a moron." 

Chris opened the door wider and Howie stepped inside. Everything was packed and sitting on the foot of the bed. "Chris, I...." 

Chris grabbed Howie's neck and pulled him close, planting a hard kiss on his lips. Howie stumbled back a bit, but Chris grabbed him and held him in place. He felt Chris's lips on his, hard and insistent and trying to part his so he could slip his tongue inside. Howie mumbled and squirmed and finally opened his mouth. 

They kissed deeply. Frantically. Howie wasn't even sure how to stop it. Chris backed him toward the bed and they fell on it, both bouncing a little when they landed, hands squirming under jackets and hips grinding together. Howie was so caught up in the web of tongues and panting and groping fingers that he didn't even mind. 

Someone knocked hard on the door and they both froze. 

"Chris?" Justin called from the other side of the door. "Come on. We gotta go. Now." 

"Dammit," Chris mumbled. He pushed himself onto his knees and growled at the ceiling, then called it out loud and clear. "Dammit! It's taken me seven years to get you to this point and now I have to leave. Dammit!" Chris fell on him again and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. "When I come back from Europe, can I kiss you again?" 

"I don't know if...." 

Chris clamped his hand over Howie's mouth. "No. When I come back from Europe, I'm going kiss you again. Okay?" 

Howie nodded under Chris's hand. 

"Good. And I don't want to have to get you drunk next time. Okay?" 

Howie nodded again. 

"Good." Chris climbed off and grabbed his suitcase. Howie sat up slowly, still reeling. Chris smacked Howie's back. "See ya later, buddy." 

"See ya." 

Later that afternoon he rode the bus with AJ, both of them staring out the window. 

"I don't think because you kissed a guy that you're necessarily gay," AJ explained. "There are, like, different shades of gay. You know, some people, like Brian, are just absolutely straight and won't even admit a guy is good looking. Some people are the opposite and don't even want to hear about chicks. And some people are in the middle. It's like, if a guy is really, really hot, they'll do stuff with him, but still like girls." 

Howie leaned his forehead against the window. "Don't people usually figure this stuff out before they're 27?" 

"Nah," AJ replied. "I don't think you ever fully figure this stuff out." 

"Which one are you?" 

AJ shrugged. "I'd do a guy if he was really, really hot. Benicio Del Toro. I'd do him." 

Howie got a mental picture and laughed and shuddered at the same time. 

*** 

The Backstreet Boys tour ended, and everyone went home for some well-deserved time off. One of the first things Howie did was go down to the water and sit on one of the benches. Solitude. Touring meant spending every waking minute with the same four guys, and the first order of business was always to be completely by himself for at least an hour. 

He opened his notebook and set it on his knee, twirling his pen between his fingers. It wasn't until he looked at the blank page that he realized he didn't have anything to write. 

He drew a little house with three windows and a door. A chimney with a little curl of smoke coming out of it. He heard the family on the bench behind him get up and leave, the squeals of the kids getting more distant. 

Then he drew a garage and a little driveway leading out to the road. A tree. A swing set. When he got to the dog house he realized he had reached the extent of his art skills. Then he remembered to put the sun in the sky with little even lines around it to indicate that it was shining. 

He wasn't even aware that someone was sitting behind him until he heard the beginnings of a "ssssssnap." He paused and smiled at his notebook. 

Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

"No way," he whispered, then spun around to find Chris sitting there with a big grin on his face. 

"Hey," Chris said cheerfully. 

Howie grinned. "What the heck are you doing?" 

"Nuthin'," Chris said. "Just enjoying the sunshine." He smiled and bit into his apple again. 

Howie bit his knuckle, shifting his weight so the notebook slid into his lap. Chris just sat there, smiling and chewing. 

"You want to get out of here?" Howie asked. 

"Sure." 

They stood up and strolled back through the park. Chris focused for a minute and tossed his apple core toward the garbage can, and it landed neatly inside. Perfect aim. 

  



End file.
